


Picking Up the Pieces

by Scarlet_Ribbons



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A lot better, Anal Sex, Angst, But He Gets Better, Dean is a Little Shit, Happy Ending, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Requited Unrequited Love, Touching, Weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:59:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4050607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet_Ribbons/pseuds/Scarlet_Ribbons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I know Dean is just using me as practice before all his conquests, but really, I don't mind. Heck, I even like it. Well, I like him. So I don't mind. Really.</p><p>What's that sound, you ask? Oh, just my heart shattering.</p><p>Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picking Up the Pieces

 

Dean is meeting a girl tonight.

 

 

He's a little nervous, no matter how cool he seems, and he keeps pacing back and forth and back and forth. It's the first time he's ever snuck out of the house like this, the first time he's lied to Dad about where he's going to be. I can tell by the way that Dean keeps rolling and unrolling his sleeves, by the way he keeps jetting his hand through heady clumps of blond-brown hair, that he's never really taken a girl on a date before.

 

Sure, I'm only nine, but I know. I know Dean. Even if he smiles at me, all white teeth and crinkly eyes, charm exuding from his features, I know. 

 

"Dean," I say, looking up from my multiplication tables. He looks up, canting his head towards me, his way of responding. His form is turned to me, his head towards the clock. "You're gonna make holes in the carpet."

 

"...." He looks down, looks up, smiles sheepishly. "Sorry, kiddo, am I bothering you?" I set my pencil down, wordlessly shaking my head from side to side. My hair flies everywhere, and it prompts an easy laugh from Dean. He tells me that I look like a wild dog when I do that. 

 

"Are you okay?"

 

"Am I okay?" He raises his eyebrows like he's never, ever been anything but okay. Like he's the very definition of confidence. Maybe he is. I've never seen Dean falter this much, not even when Dad yells at him. This is just a girl. Dean's faced much, much worse than a girl. "Am  _I_ okay?" And that stings, a little, because yeah, it's usually me who isn't okay, and hearing the flicker of incredulity makes my stomach turn.

 

"Forget I asked," I say irritably, instead, and furiously scribble tables until my fingers hurt.  _9x1=9, 9x2=18, 9x3=27,_ numbers are more precise, more concise, more trustworthy. They aren't sentient, and they won't hurt me.  _Sentient_ is my word of the day, and I think I relate to it. Numbers don't. Sometimes I need things like numbers in my life, objects that aren't  _sentient._

"Sammy," Dean huffs my name in a sigh, affectionate. My chest feels funny and fluttery the way it does when Dean says  _Sammy,_ the way it does when the name rolls off of Dean's tongue so naturally and gently. "Hey, kiddo," he says, able to sound reproachful in just seconds; he doesn't have to say sorry, because he knows he sounds the part. "You're right, of course. It's my first date, so ... I guess I'm a little... What's the word."

 

"Nervous," I suggest, unable to help a smile. He scowls without heat and jeers the word right back.

 

" _Nervous,"_ he tries, and doesn't like the taste. His face scrunches up. Dean Winchester doesn't  _do_  nervous. "Yeah, whatever. We might even kiss," he says, trying to sound like he kisses girls all the time. He's a good actor, but he doesn't fool me. I know Dean. I know Dean's never kissed a girl before.

 

"Huh," I say, because I have nothing else to say. I can't very well say that I don't like it, even though I don't. It's just a kiss, why should I be bothered? Dean can take kisses as he pleases.

 

When I glance up, Dean's eyelids are half-mast, but the dark, liquefied verdant that stares at me from beneath them is thoughtful and powerful. "What do you think, huh, Sammy?" he drawls lazily, adjusting his shirt collar as his tongue trails along his upper lip pensively. "First kiss and all? You okay with it?"

 

I'm nine. I don't know much about first kisses. It's obvious that Dean expects me to say something, probably that I'm okay with it, what with the way he's practically staring me down. I feel silly and nervous and a lot like a trapped rat. 

 

"Sure," I say, throat dry, head pounding, fingers trembling a little. "Sure, yeah, I'm okay with it."

 

Remember how I said that Dean takes kisses as he pleases? Well, that night, under the tinny, cheap light in some random motel in friggin' Nevada, Dean takes one. I look up from my insentient numbers to sentient Dean and his mouth is planted firmly against mine. I don't even close my eyes, just stare and stare and stare at Dean. Dean's eyes are closed, his face slightly scrunched up, like he's experimenting. I smell the overpowering mixture of gun oil and aftershave that makes Dean _Dean_. The pounding in my head roars to a blood-fueled drumming, and I have to fight to be able to see straight. For one second, dizziness renders me blind. Dean's fingers wrap purposely around my upper arms, nails digging into the fabric, and render me slightly immobile. 

 

The pressure vanishes from my mouth, and suddenly, Dean's at the door, tugging on his shoes. It's like it never happened- how can he pretend it never happened? But more importantly, why? Why did he kiss me? He could kiss any girl he wanted, and he picks me, and I'm not even a girl. Just to screw with me, I bet. 

 

"Thanks, Sammy," he says warmly, smiling fondly at me like he hasn't just kissed me, his brother. 

 

After the door slams behind my perfect and unfair and horrible brother, I throw my math books and utensils off the desk and cry for an hour straight.

 

\----

 

Dean is meeting a girl tonight.

 

He's no longer nervous but instead relaxed, lying on his back with his leg swinging over the motel carpet as he thumbs through a vehicle magazine that he found stuffed underneath the bed. 

 

Dean hasn't mentioned the kiss, didn't even tell me what it was like to kiss the girl. Just came back, grinned his way through dinner, and went to bed early. 

 

I'm standing at the stove, now, remembering and poking at a long-gone cheese sandwich that has more burnt spots than our old home.

 

My sense for tasteless jokes hasn't vanished. If I'd said that to Dad, he probably would've uppercut me into the sun. Whatever. I make a face at the excuse for food and deposit it regretfully into the trash can. When I turn, Dean is standing in the kitchen, only a few feet away. He looks past me and laughs, over the sound of my heart skipping a few beats. It's a full, rich laugh that comes from somewhere deep and warm inside his and makes the corners of my mouth turn upwards, too.

 

"God, you suck, Sammy." He says, slapping a little butter onto the pan. "I'll make you a sandwich before I go."

 

"Not a kid anymore," I remind him petulantly, rocking back and forth on my heels as I watch him. His posture is relaxed, hunched slightly, his eyes flickering speculatively from the pan to my face. 

 

"I might get to first base today," he says, out of the blue, pressing the spatula into the bread. Frigid water is slowly being poured over my heart, and I'm finding it hard to breathe. "With Nina. Those Brazilians, Sammy, damn." he shakes his head, but his voice has gotten slightly muted to me, like I'm listening through a radio. I try to smile, but my mouth feels colder and more stiff than my insides. 

 

"Nice," I mumble, and then he's giving me that look again, and then he does it again. He does it to me again. 

 

I don't know how I go from standing to being seated atop the table, but Dean's hands are sliding up and down my waist as he tugs me close for another kiss. I'm prepared to protest, really, I swear, but even the touch of his palms as they hold me in place makes me all but melt into compliance. Somewhere in my mind the rational part of me is casually setting itself on fire, and even as I lace my fingers behind his neck, sorrow climbs its way into my already splintering heart. After this, he's just going to leave me for Nina and this kiss will have meant nothing; I'm just his trial, girly enough that Dean doesn't think twice before using me as a substitute.

 

I wonder if he knows how much it hurts.

 

I'm the first, I'm Dean's first-first base. One of his palms gently but forcefully shoves against my thigh in soothing motions, the denim probably rough beneath his even rougher hand. He breathes into my open mouth, warm, and the smell of the gun oil-aftershave mix leaves me one pea short of completely intoxicated. He laps broad, languid strokes against my tongue, the roof of my mouth. At one point, I whimper as he nibbles my bottom lip, like some wanton creature at his mercy.

 

 

He leaves me like that, senseless, limp, sliding towards the ground. The door slams again. 

 

In the distance, I smell grilled cheese burning. 

 

\----

 

Dean is meeting a girl tonight.

 

He whistles, cheery, and I maintain my distance. I've noticed a pattern, who wouldn't? If Dean is planning on trying something new, he'll try it out on me first. And I don't want to let him. I don't want to be his guinea pig. 

 

But maybe I sort of do, because when you're this infatuated with someone, maybe you'll let them do anything to you. Even if it means they're basically stabbing you in the chest a hundred fifty times. With a hot, serrated knife. 

 

Dean doesn't know how much he's killing me, though. To Dean, I'm just a willing participant in his game.

 

Dean's unfair today. He catches me off-guard as I'm folding the laundry, going from a fluid walk to an easy pounce in a fraction of a second. My head smashes into the backboard, and for a second, I see stars. While my eyes are still rolling, Dean nips and suckles at my bottom lip and palms my nipples through my clothes. It's sudden and rushed but the biggest turn-on in the friggin' world. Dean doesn't even go beneath my clothes, just thumbs and tugs and pinches while I squirm underneath practiced hands.

 

"Second base, Sammy," he teases, breath fluttering across my lips. I think I might die. I allow myself to believe that he enjoys it. But no matter how content he looks, something is  _missing._ Something still falters in his eyes.

 

"De," I plead, my fingers somehow curling around his wrist as his name, the only coherent point in my mushy, babbling thoughts, breaks through. "Dean, please, man, don't  _do_ this to me." 

 

Dean's hands pause; I know he'll listen to me if I outright ask him to stop. He threads messy locks of my hair back along my scalp, his nails digging in just enough that my eyes roll upwards. It feels like heaven. 

 

But it's also Hell.

 

"Are you sure you want me to stop?" he sounds genuinely baffled, the asshole, and I try to glare at him through wet eyes. My chest is burning where Dean's fingers passed, my pants starting to tighten extremely uncomfortably. What I'm desperately trying to figure out is how,  _how_ Dean can be so unbothered, unruffled. Am I not his brother? Am I not his blood? This may have been what I wanted, sure, but I wanted Dean to reciprocate how I felt. "I need the practice, Sammy," he pleads, and I make a strangled sound. But no matter how much it hurts, I still  _need_ him. I still  _want him._

 

My fingers fall from his wrist.

 

I'm sick and I let my brother touch me. I let Dean's hands skirt where they want and explore every inch of skin they can reach. That, at least, is one thing I appreciate; Dean doesn't let a single square go untouched. He treats me like he loves me, fingers brushing along my lips and cheeks and eyelids and nose. I'm shivering so much that I can barely see straight, shivering and trembling from the light touches. I'm so scared, not even of Dean. I'm scared of the dark, ugly thing that's growing inside me.

 

"Calm, Sammy," he urges, forearm hooked behind my shoulders and keeping me slightly elevated from the bed. I sink against it as he litters my temple with kisses. "If you were the girl I was going out with, I'd be concerned," he adds, sounding light as he rests his forehead against mine. I keep my head tucked down so he can't see me crying, and he's gone in a few minutes.

 

My silent sniffling elevates to full-blown cries as I shred the pillow I was pressed into. How could he how  _could he- I'm_ breaking, I just want to curl into this pillow and sleep forever. Dean doesn't love me, he doesn't, he's just getting his way because he can. He's just using me as target practice, to figure out where he'll get a response or whatever. 

 

It both breaks me inside and out and holds me together.

 

\---

  
Dean is meeting a girl tonight.

 

I've been avoiding him like the plague, bitter and wizened and angry. I make sure my steps really dig in; even Dad has noticed by this point. I don't let Dean anywhere near me, and if he asks, I throw sentence fragments back, monosyllabic fragments.

 

Dean's noticed, and there's some part of him, fierce and protective that's  _always_ been there, that doesn't like it. His pupils are pitch black like nightmares, the rings circling them sharp like ice. He follows me at a distance, watches, waits, tries to gauge what's wrong.

 

I want to kiss him hard ....  _and_  bash his head into the wall.

 

"Sammy," he tries for the umpteenth time  _like this isn't his fault_ and I stalk past him into the bathroom. His face darkens, abruptly, and I realize my mistake far too late. Dean catches my hip with his own, propelling me into the restroom, and then manipulates himself in with me. I stare at him, betrayed and terrified that he's going to find out as he locks the door. "Tell me what's going on with that freaky head of yours before I make you," he insists. It's the Dean I know and love, the one who, between kissing me and making the monster inside me so  _so_  happy, takes me for dinner and cracks jokes and unknots the muscles in my back when I'm sick and nightmare-riddled. He stands in front of me, hip cocked, arms crossed, foot tapping.

 

"Let me guess," I burst out savagely, unable to keep from yelling at him. How could he not know, how could  _he not know?_ Dean is so smart, Dean's the smartest person I know and he  _knows,_ he  _knows._ He  _has to know._ His brow crinkles in confusion, his face warm and relaxed and simply worried. "You're going to be meeting  _Jenny_ or  _Tess_ or  _Katie_ and you're going to get to first or second or third base or hell, maybe even hit a home run, and you need  _me_ to be your blow-up doll so you don't screw up." My nails cut crescents into my palm, and I'm shaking so badly that Dean's visage blurs.

 

Dean tenses. His shoulders pull inwards, his jaw clenching, and I see the flat realization that sets into his face, his gorgeous face. I hate him so much, so friggin' m-

 

His expression smooths over like water, but still, in his eyes, there's something melancholic, something forlorn-

 

"Third," he says, his voice hard. The glimmer of that something vanishes.

 

"I-  _what?"_ I snap, my knuckles rolling into the bathroom counter and my nails scraping unpleasantly against the ceramic. But I already know what's coming. My heart relents immediately, my mind screams for an explanation, and Dean is pressed up against me, breathtaking and full of edges and  _there._ He kisses me until I forget what I was saying, his leg slotting gently between both of mine. I twitch embarrassingly against his thigh, but he doesn't even blink, just overpowers all my defenseless senses with all things  _Dean_. I sink into him as his fingers lace between my own, and up here, so close to him, I can count every freckle and eyelash. From here, the verdant of Dean's eyes is a myriad of earthy colors, glittering greens and browns speckled with copper. 

 

I groan into his mouth, and he responds by nudging his knee farther against my cock. 

 

"Sammy," he whispers, and shit, Dean, why do you have to do this to me? I'm getting what I want, but I only want to cry. I almost expect to see sugar, that's how saccharine he says my name. Like I mean something to him. That's laughable.

 

So I hold onto him for as long as I can like I'd hold onto a lifeboat, feel him palm the rise of my jeans, let him kiss me stupid-- or, at least, more stupid than I've been off-late --and then listen to him leave, curled up into a ball between the toilet and the counter. 

 

\---

 

Dean is meeting a girl tonight.

 

I'm jaded, weary, even, and I've stopped trying to avoid my brother. When he's not being an asshole, I wouldn't want anyone else at my side. He'll scritch his fingers into my hair when I have trouble sleeping, like he knows from the third experience that it makes me shiver happily.

 

Besides, what Dean doesn't know is that I'll be away from his poison when I go to college. The poison that I live and breathe like air. The poison that makes me sick, that makes me feel like my insides drip black ink.

 

"Sammy," he's seated beside me, hip to hip, arm to arm, just a gentle brush of contact. It still makes my breath catch, silly as it is. 

  
"Dean," I sigh, resigned.

 

"Home run, baby boy," he looks at me, and damn it, he doesn't have the right to look like a sad Greek sculpture, but he does. His words register, and I relax beneath his roaming fingertips.

 

This is everything I'd once hoped for, everything I'd wanted from Dean. His body, melding with mine, the sounds of his panting and how hungry, starved he looks when he causes friction between our cocks. This is what I'd dream about, but it makes me sick, God, I can't think or breathe but I'm going to be sick. I want Dean to love me when he does this. I want him to push the hair behind my ears and  _tell me he loves me._ But he's just my flighty older brother, he never settles, and he would get off if I told him no. I know he would. But I can't tell him no, and when he slides into me, full and slick with lube and perfect, I throw rationality to the wind and entwine my body into his. I scream into his bare shoulder, into the humid skin that's been a refuge for me as I've grown up. I breathe Dean until we both come, and Jesus, it's explosive, violent, sinfully perfect.

 

But this time, when he leaves, I follow.

 

I scramble off the bed, limbs slippery but functional, and manage to cram myself back into my clothes. The first step I take sends me reeling, face-planting straight into the floor. But I get myself to walk straight just as soon as I can see straight, and I lurch my way after Dean and outside into the chilly night.

 

Dean took his keys, but when I wipe my sweaty bangs out of my face, the Impala is sitting outside in its spot. So what the hell. What the hell?

 

Just out of the corner of my eye, then, I see him, strutting towards the bar. It's a little place that Dad and Dean have announced as their slice of heaven in this nowhere town. Maybe he's meeting her there? I watch him pull the door open, watch him, concealed by trees and shrubbery, through the enormous glass windows.

 

Dean orders a drink and just sits there. He just sits there, alone, and the vicious whispering in my head erupts into laughter at my expense. I hope to any deity that he's been stood up, but somewhere, I know he hasn't. Tonight, maybe every other night, Dean has had his way with me and has used a girl as an excuse.

 

I don't know how I make it back with the livid tears obscuring my vision, but the instant I step foot into the motel room, my hands reach for my duffel immediately. I don't know what I'm throwing in there, random crap, probably, and I really couldn't care less. I have time anyway, Dean has to feign having sex with a girl long enough to fool me.

 

God.

 

How could I have been so  _stupid?_

Maybe I'm supposed to be rejoicing. Maybe I should be thrilled that Dean isn't really hooking up. But I'm battered, tired, I just want it to be over. Because if Dean had just told me that he wanted me, I would've been so happy to reciprocate. If he'd just told me.

 

I don't even know where I'll go. I could try my second run to Flagstaff, but Dean would get there before I would. It doesn't matter, though, because then I hear the door easing open. 

 

"Sammy," he starts to say, his voice determined, probably hoping to brag about being with yet another girl and how awesome it was. But he freezes; I can't look at his face, his gorgeous, horrible face, but his boots stop in place. The panic in his voice is well concealed, drowning underneath a facade of calmness. "What're you doing, kiddo?"

 

"Leaving," I spit out, and there isn't enough contempt in my voice, not nearly enough. But it still makes Dean flinch.

 

"Sam, just calm down for a second," he pleads, now behind me as his fingers encircle my wrists. "Hey, did Dad do something?" There's that not-so-well-concealed protectiveness, riled up and ready to fight again. 

 

Something in my head explodes, sheer white and furious. In one motion, I yank my wrists free, spin on my heel, and shove him backwards with as much force as I can manage. It's not much, mind, because I'm practically staggering in place. Dean looks confused, now, hurt, even, and damn it, no, he's not allowed to look hurt.

 

" _Dad?"_ I laugh, and it's edged with something horrible. Hysteria? "Please, Dean." I don't know who's talking anymore, whose taunting and wild voice this is. I can't even tell that it's me. It feels like I'm trying to shield what's inside, what remnants of my heart are left, because Dean will pound them to a dust if I let him in again.

 

"Then--" Dean's eyebrows draw together, and hey, bro, did you ever think that maybe the reason was you?

 

"I'm going to go somewhere," I continue, watching his face so that I can see when the penny drops, "where, when I have sex with someone, they love me, instead of using me as practice for so-called girls and then rushing off to drink instead."

 

Dean goes white.  _Bulls-eye._

"I'm going somewhere," I say quietly, pretty much punching the clothes so they fit in the bag, "where nobody uses my feelings to their  _fucking_ advantage, where someone might actually want me." 

 

"Sammy." Dean's voice is sandpaper, and he's slowly rising to his feet. "Sam, damn it, you don't understand-"

 

" _Then make me understand!"_ I scream, yanking my hand out of the bag and effectively shutting him up. My head is pounding, stomach turning, I just want to crawl into a hole and die. "Be honest with me! For once, Dean, for once, be honest to me and don't use the fact that I love you and would do just about anything for you against me!"

 

We stare at each other. Dean's still, so still that he might have been a really lovely statue for all I know. And of course, was I really expecting a response?

 

His mouth trembles when he opens it, and he's going to lie, I know he's going to lie to me-

 

"It's true," he says instead, and hearing him confess as much prompts the first sob out of me. I know it's true, damn it, I know it's true. But at least I could've imagined that it was a dream, a nightmare. Not when Dean admits it. "I was using you, Sammy, I-" he cards a hand through his hair. "It was the only way I knew to be able to touch you like that-"

 

The urge to scream has returned. " _Bullshit,_ " I seethe. "You know I love you, you know I always have, and if you had asked, Dean, if you had  _asked_ me-"

 

"I can't do that!" He sounds frenzied, now, hands shoved into his pockets. He's agitated. I know Dean. "I can't, Sammy, God-" he scrubs at his face with his palm, looking tired and shaken and most of all scared, because I still haven't stopped shoving clothes into the duffel. "I- I couldn't even talk to you properly after I realized that I-"

 

I know what he's trying to say, but it's only going to kill me if he does. "Dean, don't, don't just say something to get me to stay." I cut him off. "You don't even get how much it hurts, do you? You do whatever you want, and then you leave. You leave me lying here or sitting in the bathroom or wherever the fuck I was when you had your way, and you don't get how much it hurts." I can barely meet my brother's eyes anymore, my chest hurts so so badly and it's hard to breathe. I take huge gulps of air. "I love you and it hurts."

 

"Sam!" Dean hisses fiercely, taking my shoulders with so much force that I can feel my brain rattling a little. He's got a tragic expression on his face, fury mingled with grief. I almost laugh inappropriately "I may have used you, Sammy," he admits, his expression awash with regret, "but don't you think for one minute-- don't you ever think that I haven't thought the same way about you." He digs his fingers in unconsciously, averting his eyes. "You're my kid brother, Sam. It was so wrong, it was so  _wrong._ I didn't want to corrupt the only good thing in my life-- It got so hard, and then I had to touch you. I  _had_ to, but I needed an excuse- but I swear, Sammy, I lo-"

 

"Prove it."

 

He blinks, startled, and I know I'm playing-- drowning ---with fire. 

 

"What?"

 

" _Prove it, Dean!"_ I scream at him, fists clenched, my body strung taut like a bow; for a second I think Dean will just run, flee, escape, and I'm prepared for the worst rejection yet-

 

And then I see Dean's face set before he springs.

 

I land on the bed with a rough thump, breath whooshing from my lungs, and struggle in his grip. Iron, corded, unyielding. 

 

"You're one of a kind, Sammy," Dean hisses above me, and I can feel him nipping at my neck, my collar. I struggle in his grip, growling

 

"That's not good enough, Dean," I snap at him, burning and far from content. I want him to drive it home, I want him to prove that he actually learned something from me and that his not running off with girls means that he wants me, loves  _me_ and only  _me._ Dean's eyes glitter with warmth, no,  _heat,_  and uncertainty as he folds my legs up. " _More,_ I want you to give me  _more,_ right  _now."_

 

"You're asking for me to do this, baby boy," he reminds me, as though unsure, doubtful that this is what I really want. Normal people certainly wouldn't.

 

I lean up a little, only to say:

 

_"Don't make me regret it."_

I think something snaps in my brother, because he makes a feral sound and lunges for me. The pinch of pain when he grinds my wrists together fades as he wrestled my jeans away, touching, tracing, peppering me with violent kisses. 

 

He reduces me to nothing and everything in his hands, like putty, pliant and willing. But Dean, Dean is trying to treat me like glass, like I'm fragile, like he hasn't already hurt me. 

 

"I can't break anymore, Dean," I plead into his air, gasping, trying to breathe properly. He loves me and wants me and he's palming the front of my boxers like a man on a mission. I arch up against his hand, grinding myself into the coarse fingers almost shamelessly, and my teeth tear ruthlessly into my lip. I can't even feel dirty or sick anymore, because Dean  _Dean_ he's paying attention to only me, he doesn't think I'm disgusting.

 

He mouths against my nipples, words that I'm too incoherent to understand, and wraps his hand around my cock through the fabric; I'm reduced to monosyllable babbling. 

 

"So fucking sensitive, baby boy," he purrs, words laced with desperation and thick with lust. "C'mon, Sammy, make those sounds again." His hand, God, his hand,  _what is he doing?_ It sends a spurt of pleasure streaming up my cock and into my spine, causing me to arch from the bed and against Dean. He actually chuckles, and the sound nearly makes me come right there into his hand. "So good for me, baby boy," he whispers, smoothing my messy as hell locks away from my forehead. "You gonna come for me, Sammy?" 

 

" _Hnnn,"_ is all I manage in response, because his hand is still at work and each round sends ecstasy coursing into my bloodstream. I'm hard in his hands but soft, willing to do anything for him. He continues the movements when he leans over for a kiss, and I lift numb fingers to grip his hair, grip him in place. There it is, more reliable than anything else, gun oil and aftershave. I hold him so he can't run away any more, so he can't lie, so he can't break my heart. He infiltrates my mouth with his tongue, languorous as he explores every crevice, every tooth, the curve of my lips. He relaxes into me, finally, kisses me not to ensure that he knows how to do it but to ensure that I'm not going anywhere. 

 

"Sammy," he drawls between nuzzling my neck. I think I make a responsive sound, which in itself is hard to do. I don't know if anyone could keep cool beneath Dean, in Dean's hands. "You aren't going to leave, are you?"

 

Hell, I can barely even open my eyes, let alone  _leave._ Content, I wrap my arms around my brother's neck, legs slung loosely around his hips, and shake my head as I kiss his collarbone. His free hand strokes the base of my spine, rubs the small of my back.

 

"Didn't think so," he murmurs, trying to sound confident and smug; I can tell he was scared, because his voice bears shaky undercurrents, and the hand braced against my back becomes an arm that curls around my entire body. I end up somehow in his lap as he undoes his own jeans. "Don't you ever do that, baby boy."

 

"Wha?" I try, eyes half lidded. Pretty sure that my tongue would be hanging out if I had let it, but I refuse to leave myself vulnerable to any embarrassment. 

 

"Leave." he says, simply, and when he falls forward to kiss me again, I decide that I have to keep the news of applying to Stanford under wraps. Not like I'll get in. It's a confession for a different day. All that matters is Dean's lips, the angles of his jaw, the way his cock is--

 

_Freezing._

I yelp, arms tightening around his neck, and he shushes me, hand pressing hard against my back. "'S just a little lube, Sammy," he admits, smirking a little before kissing my chin. "You'll want it, trust me."

 

"You're so narcissistic, Dean," I huff, but his cock sliding into me prompts a cry from my throat. "We d-did this already," I remind him with a grunt, lifting my hips to accommodate all of him inside me at once.

 

"It's different this time," is his concise response before he takes my hips and pulls me all the way down onto him. It's at once the most painful, most amazing thing in the world. Forget stars, I see planets spinning, the sun blazing, can almost see my skull from where my eyes are. I can automatically tell that Dean's heart wasn't as in it as it was back then, because now, now when he knows how happy I am, the sensation is the most fulfilling thing I've ever known in my life. He's right. It's different this time, different when we both  _know_ and when this relationship wasn't built on lies. He's honest this time, and when he's honest Dean is even more beautiful.  _Everything_ is more beautiful. 

 

Then I'm scrambling to move, to thrust myself back onto him like I'm addicted. Dean helps me, groaning so close to my ear as he yanks me back down. I can feel him  _slam_ into my prostate, and my resulting cry is dazed and delighted. Dean's eyes light up when he hears me, which is sort of embarrassing, really. 

 

" _That,_ Sammy." he glows, beaming at me like he's not currently inside me. My resulting smile is weak, because all my energy is going into the sex, but genuinely happy. Sweat falls from the tips of my bangs and rolls down the side of my face as I lift and lower my hips against his. "So perfect for me, baby boy."

 

"De, please," I whimper, barely able to see through my plastered bangs, "Do it, in me, please.  _Please._ "

 

Finally, my brother listens to me. Heat pours into me, rushing into my stomach, and for a second I think it'll burn a hole right through my skin. I come just a second after he does, and every ounce of energy drains from my limbs and leaves me barely hanging onto my brother. 

 

He continues skittering along my spine even as I fall asleep, eyelids slipping all the way down, murmuring content things and sounding so blissful, relaxed,  _happy._ Dean's not a romantic, because I can hear him grumbling at one point: "Fuckin' came before my little brother, what in the hell kind of logic is that?" I laugh a little, knowing I'm going to be okay, that we're going to be okay.

 

Finally, I can safely tape the pieces of my heart back together and start healing. 


End file.
